Only Gilt
by ColonelShaw
Summary: "Theodore," Mr. Ferguson says kindly. "Is there something you want to say…?" I shake my head. There is nothing to say. It is too late. I'm already a murderer. Nothing can change that. One-shot.


A/N: Big things are coming…. Until they arrive, here's a quick one-shot. Enjoy.

Only Gilt

The birds perch is swinging to and fro and hitting me in the nose. I can see my eye in its little mirror. It's water dish is sliding around near my chin. The smell of old bird droppings is awful. The world looks different when you're staring through bars.

Fool, fool, fool.

What am I doing walking to school with my head in a birdcage?

Oh, no. Here's the school gate. Kids are looking at me. Pointing. Laughing. Their faces remind me of waves, slapping and slopping at a drowning child.

Bummer. Here comes that rotten Ryan Philips. He's grinning evilly. He's poking bits of bread through the bars. "Pretty Polly," he says. "Polly want a cracker?"

I wish I was an ant so I could crawl into a crack. Then no one would ever see me.

Teachers are looking out of the teachers lounge window. I can see Mr. gristle looking. I can see Mr. Ferguson looking. They are shaking their heads.

I hope Mr. Gristle doesn't come out. "Get that thing off your head!" He would shout. "You fool, what do you think you are? A parrot?" Then he will try to rip the cage off my head. He will probably rip my ears off my skull while he's doing it.

Mr. Ferguson is coming. Thank goodness. He's the nicest teacher in the school. I don't think he'll yell. Still, you never know with teachers. He hasn't seen a boy come to school with his head in a birdcage before.

"Theodore," he says kindly. "Is there something you want to say…?"

I shake my head. There is nothing to say. It is too late. I'm already a murderer. Nothing can change that.

Mr. Ferguson takes me inside. We go to the his office and sit down on the couch. He looks at me through the bars but doesn't say anything. He's waiting. He's waiting for me to tell my story.

After a bit I say, "Alright. I'll tell you about it. But only if you keep it secret."

Mr. Ferguson thinks about this for a bit. Then he smiles and nods his head. I start to tell him my story.

XXX

On Friday I walked over to see Eleanor. She lives down the street. I'm in love with her. She is the most beautiful girl in the world. When she smiles, it reminds me of strawberries in the springtime. She makes my stomach go all funny. That's how good she is.

My dog, Pepper, goes with me. Pepper's a wimp. She runs around in circles whenever anyone visits. She rolls on her back and begs for a scratch. She would lick a burglar's hand if one came to rob our house. She will not fight or bark. She runs off and hides if Dave is mad. She is definitely a wimp.

Mind you, when Dave get's mad, I run off myself. When he's mad it reminds me of a root beer bottle bursting in the fridge.

Anyway, when I got to Eleanor's house, she was feeding Beethoven. Beethoven is her parakeet. She keeps it in a cage in the backyard. She loves Beethoven very much. Lucky Beethoven.

Beethoven can't fly because he only has one wing. Eleanor found him in the forest. This enormous, savage dog had the poor bird in it's mouth. Eleanor grabbed the dog without even thinking of herself and saved Beethoven's life. But he was left with one wing and can't fly at all.

Now Eleanor loves Beethoven more than anything.

Eleanor looks at Pepper. "You shouldn't bring her over here," she said. "Beethoven is scared of dogs."

Pepper rolled over on her back and begs with her four little legs. "Look at her," I said. "She wouldn't hurt Beethoven." When she rolls over like that, it reminds me of a dying beetle.

Eleanor walks into Beethoven's aviary. She lets me in and locks Pepper out by putting a brick against the door. Eleanor picks up Beethoven and the little parakeet sits on her finger. It starts to sing. Oh, that bird can sing. It is beautiful. It is magic. A shiver runs up my spine. It reminds me of the feeling you get when fizzy lemonade bubbles go up your nose.

Eleanor puts the bird down on the ground. It is always on the ground because it can't fly. "Tie up Pepper," she said, "and I'll let Beethoven out for a walk."

I do what she says. I would do anything for Eleanor. I would even roll on my back and beg like Pepper. Just for a smile. But Eleanor hardly knows I'm here. I tie up Pepper and Eleanor lets Beethoven out for a walk. He chirps and sings and walks around the backyard. It reminds me of a little yellow penguin waddling around on green snow.

Pepper is tied up, so she just sits and looks at Beethoven and licks her lips.

XXX

After a while, Eleanor shuts Beethoven back in the aviary and puts the brick back in front of the door. Pepper sticks one ear up in the air and looks cute, Eleanor gives her a pat and a cuddle. "She's a great dog," she said. "But you have to keep her away from Beethoven."

"Don't worry," I say. "I promise."

Eleanor smiles at me again. Then she says something that makes my heart jump. "Next to Beethoven, you're my best friend."

It is hard to explain how I feel when I hear this. My stomach goes all wobbly. It reminds me of a bunch of frogs jumping around inside a bag.

I walk back to my house feeling great. Wonderful. Dave isn't home, so Pepper can be inside. Dave doesn't like Pepper being in the house. She's a smart dog. She can open the door with her paw if it's left open a little bit ajar.

Dave won't let Pepper in because she once pooped in the kitchen. It did not smell nice and I had to clean it up. Pepper's poop kinda reminds me of…

"I think we can leave that bit out," said Mr. Ferguson, who is listening to my story carefully and looking at me through the bars of the birdcage."

"Okay," I said. "I'll move on to the awful part."

XXX

I did not see Eleanor for two days because my family had to visit Aunt Jackie. We leave Pepper at the dog kennel all Friday and Saturday. When we come back, we collect her from the kennel. Poor Pepper. She hates dog kennels. She cries and whimpers whenever she has to stay there. But she is to scared of the other dogs to bark.

We drive home with Pepper on my knee. She looks up at me with those big brown eyes. They remind me a bit of two pools of gravy spilled on the tablecloth.

"Dave, can Pepper sleep inside tonight?" I ask.

"No," Dave says. "You tie her up in the shed, same as always."

Poor Pepper. That night, I don't tie her up. I sneak her into my bedroom and let her sleep in bed with me. She's a very clean dog. She's always licking and chewing herself.

Dave, however, has a keen sense of smell. He will know that Pepper's been in. Even if you sprayed the room down, Dave can still smell the dog. I open the window and let in the fresh air. Then I fall asleep and have a lovely dream. All about how Eleanor and I and Beethoven and Pepper get married and all live together on a tropical island. It reminds me a bit of one of those pretend stories that always have a happy ending. I wish real life was like that.

XXX

The next day is Sunday. I sleep in until the sun shines on my face and wakes me up. A soft wind is blowing into the room. I get out of bed and shut the window.

Pepper is gone.

I look out the window and see Pepper running around with a yellow tennis ball.

I think about how Dave doesn't like getting dog spit on the tennis balls. It leaves green marks on his hands.

Green marks. Our tennis balls are green.

What is that yellow thing in Pepper's mouth? I jump out the window and run down the yard. Pepper sees me coming. A chase. She loves a chase. She runs off at top speed. She reminds me of a rabbit bobbing up and down as it runs away from a hunter.

My heart is beating very fast. "Please," I say to myself. "Let it be a ball. Let it be Alvin's cell phone. Let it be anything. But don't let it be…" It's too awful to even say.

I run after Pepper. She loves the fun. She runs under the house. "Come out!" I yell. "Come out you rotten dog!" Pepper doesn't move. "I'll kill you!" I yell. I'm shouting. There are tears in my eyes.

Pepper knows that I'm mad. She rolls over on her back and begs. Way under the house where I can't even get her. She drops the yellow thing and sneaks off.

Oh, no. I can't bear it. I crawl under the house on my stomach. It is dusty and dirty. There are spiders but I don't even notice them.

I stretch out my hand and grab the little bundle of feathers. It is Beethoven. Dead. He is smeared with blood and dirt and dog spit. His eyes are white and hard. His little legs are stiff. They remind me of frozen twigs on a bare tree. Beethoven stares at me without seeing. He has sung his last song.

Tears carve tracks down my face. They run into my mouth and I taste salt.

Everything is ruined. My life is over. My dog has killed Beethoven. It is all my fault. If I had tied Pepper up, this would never happened. My head swims. When Eleanor finds out, she will cry. She'll hate me. She'll hate Pepper.

Miss. Miller will tell Dave. What'll they do to Pepper?

XXX

I crawl out into the backyard. Pepper is wagging her tail slowly. She knows something is wrong. I feel funny inside. For a second, I feel like kicking Pepper hard. I feel like kicking her so hard that she'll fly over the fence.

Then I look into her gravy-pool eyes and I know that she is just a dog. "Oh, Pepper," I cry. "Oh, Pepper, Pepper, Pepper. What have you done…?" Then I say to myself, "Theodore, Theodore, Theodore, what have YOU done?"

I tie up Pepper. Then I take Beethoven to my bedroom. He is so small and stiff and shrunken. He reminds me a bit of my own heart.

I think about Eleanor. She mustn't find out. What if I go and buy another yellow parakeet? One that looks the same. She'll never know. Eleanor's car is not there. They are out.

I go down to the garage and get this old golden cage that is covered in dust. When I was little, I used to think it was real gold. "No," Dave told me, "It's only gilt."

I wrap up Beethoven in a tissue and put him carefully in my pocket. Then I look in my wallet. I have seven dollars. I jump on my bike with the golden cage tied to the back. Where do they sell parakeets? At the flea market. It's late. The flea market will be closing soon.

I ride like I have never ridden before. The wind whips my hair. I puff. I pant. Sweat runs into my eyes. My heart is hurting. My legs are aching. I look at my watch. It's five o'clock. The flea market will be closed.

It is. The trucks are leaving. The shoppers have gone. The ground is covered in hotdog wrappers and empty plastic bags. The stalls are empty.

I look at the trucks. One ore two men are still loading. I drop my bike and run from truck to truck. Car parts- no. Plants- no. Watches- no. Chocolates- no. Cotton candy- no. I look in each truck. None have pets.

I am done. I hang my head. Beethoven is dead. Eleanor will hate me. And Pepper. What will happen?

I walk back slowly. Men are laughing. Children are calling. Cats are meowing.

Cats are meowing? Pets.

There is a lady with a small van and in the back are cats, dogs, guinea pigs, and birds. There is a large cage full of birds.

"Please," I yell out. "Please. Have you got any parakeets?"

"They are up in the back of the truck," she says. "I can't get them out now. Come back next week."

"I can't," I sob. "I need it now."

The lady shakes her head and starts up her van. I take Beethoven out of my pocket and unwrap him. The lady looks at the little bloodstained body. She turns off the engine and starts to unload the van.

At last we get the cage of birds unloaded. There are canaries and finches. The cage is filled with birds. There are about twenty parakeets. There are green ones and blue ones.

And there is one yellow one. It looks just like Beethoven. It could be his twin. If I put this bird in Eleanor's cage, she'll never know the difference.

"Ten dollars," the lady says. "Yellow ones are hard to come by."

I empty my wallet. "I only have seven dollars." I tell her.

The lady takes my money with a smile and gently hands me the bird.

I put the bird in my golden cage and pedal like crazy. My trip back reminds me a bit of a sailboat skidding to shore in a storm. I hope I can get there before Eleanor arrives home. I have to put the new bird in the cage before she knows Beethoven is dead.

XXX

Finally I get home. There is no car at Eleanor's house yet. They are still out. I rush into the backyard and down to the aviary where the wire door is flapping in the wind. The new parakeet is sitting on the perch in my golden cage. It flaps its wings.

Wings?

Beethoven only had one wing. Beethoven couldn't fly. Oh, no. Eleanor will know straightaway that the new bird is not Beethoven.

My plan has failed. I take out the little bird and stretch out it's wings. It has one wing too many. "little bird," I say. "You're no good to me like this. What will I do with you?"

There is only one thing to do. I throw the tiny parakeet up into the air. "Good bye, little bird." I say. It flies off in a flurry of feathers and disappears forever.

I go home.

All is lost. Eleanor will know what Pepper has done. Eleanor will know what I've done. I didn't chain her up like Dave told me. It is all my fault. I am a murderer. I am responsible for Beethoven's death.

I will never be able to look at Eleanor. She will never want to look at me.

Then I get an idea. I'll bury Beethoven and say nothing. Eleanor will think he has escaped and walked off.

No, that's no good. Eleanor will still think Pepper opened the cage. And she'll ask me to help look for Beethoven. I would have to pretend to hunt for a bird, knowing it was dead.

I get another idea. It is better. But terrible. I will sneak back to the cage and put Beethoven's body inside. I will lock the cage with the brick. Eleanor will think that Beethoven has died of old age.

But Beethoven is covered in blood, dirt and dried-up dog spit.

I will have to clean him. I take Beethoven's body to the sink and wash him gently. I hate myself for doing this. The blood starts to rinse out. But not all of it. I soak him for a while. I try detergent. I try soap. At last he is clean.

He is clean and dead. And wet.

I go and fetch a hair dryer, and I dry out Beethoven's feathers until they are fluffy and new. I gently close his staring eyes, then, I sneak down to Eleanor's backyard. I remind myself a bit of a robber skulking around a jewelry shop.

I go inside the aviary door and put Beethoven down on the sawdust. No one will ever know my terrible secret. I'm safe. Pepper is safe. Eleanor will still like us. I close the door, replace the brick and go home.

That night, I cannot sleep. I see Eleanor's sad face. I dream of myself in jail. Nobody likes me. Nobody wants me. I have caused sorrow and pain.

In the morning, I look out of my window. I see Eleanor and her sisters with Miss. Miller. They are gathered around the cage. I can't hear what they are saying. I don't want to know what they're saying. Eleanor will be crying. Her tears will be falling. If I could see them, they would remind me of a salty waterfall.

I see Jeanette put an arm around Eleanor's shoulder. I wish it could be my arm. I see Miss. Miller pick up Beethoven gently in her hand.

I can't look at them anymore. Everything is my fault. Poor Pepper is just a dog. I should have tied her up. Murderer. I am a murderer, and no one will ever know. My horrible secret will stay with me forever.

I get the golden cage and rush out to the garage. I cut a hole in the bottom with garden shears. I push my head through the hole. I will wear the golden cage for the rest of my life. It is my punishment. It is what I get for what I did. I will never take it off.

XXX

Mr. Ferguson is looking at me sadly. "You made a mistake," he says. "A little mistake that made big things happen. But it wasn't you fault. And even if it was, you can't carry around the burden forever. Like a rock on your shoulders. Or a cage on your head. You have to face up to it. Tell Eleanor. And then go on living."

We are still sitting on the couch in his office. Looking out the window. A girl is slowly walking to school. She reminds me of a lonely ghost.

Mr. Ferguson walks out and brings her into the room. Her eyes are red, but still beautiful. Her face is sad. It reminds me of a statue of a beautiful princess who has passed away. I cannot look at her. I shrink down in my cage.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she says to Mr. Ferguson. "But something happened at home. My parakeet, Beethoven, died on Friday. Miss. Miller says he died of old age."

I hang my head in shame. I can't tell her the truth. I just can't.

Friday?

"Not Friday," I say. "Yesterday."

"No," Eleanor says. "He died on Friday. We buried him in the backyard, but someone dug him up and put him back in the aviary."

I take the cage off my head and throw it in the trash. After school, I walk home with Eleanor. She holds my hand. It sort of reminds me of, well, flying free, like we are up there in the clouds with Beethoven.


End file.
